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C.
Where
art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak
of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou
thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power
to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse,
and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly
spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise,
resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have
any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to
decay,
And make Time's spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So
thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
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